


all the things that i know (that your parents don’t)

by ohmygodwhy



Series: sweet pea's crush on fangs (and other stories) [6]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Underage Smoking, my brand if u will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 03:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16736325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: Sweet Pea can feel his inhibitions—not that he has many to begin with—slipping away with each hit. They’re getting into deep shit already, so might as well fuck it and say what’s been on his mind for a while.“So what, your dad teach you how to throw back a shot?” He asks.





	all the things that i know (that your parents don’t)

**Author's Note:**

> listen, where else am i supposed to project my alcoholic parent related issues? anyway i havent watched a single ep since january i just missed my stupid kids. hope they're doing ok (don't tell me if they aren't)

 

Sweet Pea had his first cigarette at exactly eleven years old. One of his older brother’s friends, because his brother did all kinds of shit like that but didn’t let Sweet Pea copy him. He did let him ride on the back of his motorcycle without a helmet on, because Sweet Pea insisted—his brother rode without a helmet, so that’s what Sweet Pea did—but he didn’t let him smoke or drink or hang out at the bar too much.

His friends didn’t give nearly as many fucks, though, and when he asked for a cig, said he was eleven whole years old now and that was old enough to try it, one of the younger ones slipped one between his fingers and into Sweet Pea’s clumsy hands. He had lit it for him, too, showed him how to put in between his lips and breathe it in. He didn’t show him how to breathe out without choking and almost fucking dying, though, and the asshole had laughed at him while he coughed.  
  
That’s when his brother had showed up, hands full of the birthday-groceries they had stopped for, and gotten all pissed off. _He’s just a kid, asshole, that shit’ll kill him,_ he’d said, crushing the cig into the concrete beneath his boot.  
  
_He asked,_ his friend had said, unapologetic, and his brother had rolled his eyes and said to Sweet Pea: _at least wait until you’re fifteen. That’s when I had my first smoke._  
  
_You almost coughed your lungs up when you were twelve,_ his other friend said, stone cold. His brother had swatted the back of his head and said _shut up, asshole, I’m trying to be a good role model._  
  
Sweet Pea had always thought—still thinks—that his brother was the best role model someone could have. His brother was super cool, and tough, and respected. He smoked and drank but not too much, sped down the street but not when Sweet Pea was riding with him. Sweet Pea wanted to be just like him when he got older. Wanted to smoke and drink and rev his motor and be liked and respected and cool, even though it seemed like his brother wanted him to do the opposite.  
  
"Why can’t I just drop out?" he complained one day, after he was done complaining about the stupid detention he got for being like three minutes late.  
  
"Because school’s important," his brother had answered.  
  
"You dropped out," he’d argued.  
  
"Yeah, and now I’ve got a shit job and no diploma."  
  
"You’ll get a better job," he said offhand, "it’s just to tide us over, right? That what you said before."    
  
His brother had smiled, but it was a brittle smile, like the ones he wore when they stopped by dad’s or he talked about money, and said "Yeah, of course."  
  
Sweet Pea accepted it like he accepted everything his brother gave him.  
  
He never got a better job.  
  
Jones has his first cigarette when he’s today years old, choking around the smoke like an amateur. Sweet Pea’s not an amateur anymore; he snuck his second cig when he was thirteen, shared it with Fangs behind the bleachers at school. He knows how to smoke like a pro by now, just like he knows how to throw back a shot and barely gag.  
  
Jones is alright at that, at least, even though he doesn’t drink very often. The first time he’d seen Jones take a shot like he knew what he was doing, he almost wanted to say _your dad teach you that?_ but he wasn’t that much of an asshole. Jones got defensive when you brought up his dad, and his dad was FP fucking Jones anyways, and he wasn’t gonna be an asshole about someone he respected.  
  
So he didn’t say that, just clapped him on the back and said _surprised you didn’t choke._  
  
_Fuck off,_ Jones had said, and that had been that.  
  
Now, sitting on the floor of the bedroom in FP’s shitty trailer that Jones is living in instead of living with his shitty foster parents for whatever reason, Jones chokes around the smoke of his first cigarette. Blunt, if he’s being a pretentious pothead.  
  
“Amateur,” Sweet Pea says, taking the roll from his hand and bringing it to his own lips.  
  
Jones just flips him off, coughing into his elbow. Sweet Pea laughs, and passes it to Toni. She doesn’t smoke on principle—she says she’s not a fucking pothead or she doesn’t wanna ruin her lungs, depending on what it is—but she holds it for a minute all elegant and shit, just to look cool. And then stands up, because she has a ‘date or whatever’ with that Blossom girl, and she’s gotta drive.  
  
“Don’t burn this place down,” she warns, passing it back to Jones, who holds it delicately.  
  
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Jones says, so Sweet Pea snatches the blunt again, just because he can.  
  
“Have fun on your date,” Sweet Pea says.  
  
“I will,” she says, and it’s an improvement from when she used to insist that it wasn’t a date, because she hated any of them knowing her love life business because she was weird like that. Sweet Pea is pretty sure they’re official but frankly, they’re all too afraid to ask.  
  
Now, he and Jones don’t really hang out alone very often, because they just don’t. Sweet Pea’s stayed a few night at the trailer when his brother’s place was too crowded, and they’re in the same chem class, and obviously in the same gang, but that’s about it. Sweet Pea likes him well enough. He’s not too bad, once he stops being so damn pretentious. Or once he gets some weed into his system.  
  
“You're shit at this,” Sweet Pea says when Jones coughs again, and rolls a water bottle in his direction.  
  
“Then show me how to do it, Mister Pro.”  
  
“You gotta hold it for a sec before you blow it out, but don’t fucking swallow.”  
  
“I didn’t!”  
  
“Yeah, you did. Just fucking—breathe it in, hold it, and breathe it out. It’s not that hard.”  
  
Jones frowns at him, but does as he’s told. Sweet Pea watches his throat go still, watches the smoke disperse as he exhales, watches him lick his lips afterwards instead of coughing again. He looks away to snatch the blunt from his long fingers.  
  
“I told you it wasn’t that hard.”  
  
“Shut up. Not all of us‘ve been smoking since we were what, five?”  
  
“Thirteen, asshole. My brother didn’t let me touch that shit.”    
  
Sweet Pea kind of wants Jones to ask about his brother so he can brag about him, but he doesn’t. Asshole. He takes another drag and blows the smoke right at him, just because he can.  
  
“Chill out with that,” he says, fanning it away, “I don’t want this place to smell like weed when my dad gets back.”  
  
FP is still in prison. The trial should be ending soon. Jones might be called up as a witness, and he’s been all jittery about it. Fangs says he’s probably afraid that they’ll ask him something that’ll incriminate his dad, ask about his addiction or the fact that he let his son be homeless for like a year or something.  
  
They don’t know how it’ll end, but Jones talks about it like it’s a for-sure that FP will get declared Not Guilty, somehow. No one is mean enough to disagree.  
  
“Febreze it,” he says.  
  
“I don’t have any.”  
  
“Then go buy some.”  
  
“How expensive is febreze?”  
  
“I dunno, look it up.”  
  
Jones looks it up. He squints down at his phone and frowns. “Is five dollars expensive for air freshener?”  
  
Sweet Pea thinks about it for a moment. “Don’t know,” he decides. “Maybe go for the off-brand shit.”  
  
Jones makes a small _hm_ of agreement. He shakes his head when Sweet Pea offers him the blunt again. The trailer is cold, the metal wall chilly against his back, even through his jacket.  
  
“Does this place have a heater?”  
  
“Yeah. Doesn’t work very good, so we save it for when it’s like, _cold_ -cold.”  
  
“This isn’t cold-cold?”  
  
Jones shrugs, “The actual heater is shit, but we have a little space heater in the closet if you wanna plug it in.”  
  
Sweet Pea doesn’t really wanna stand up, but he’d rather stand up than sit in the cold for another minute. There’s lotsa shit in the only bit of storage space in the whole trailer, but the space heater is, lucky for him, on the first shelf, and it’s only covered by a few folded up sheets. They’re light pink and all polka-dotty; Sweet Pea doesn’t think FP ever used those on his own bed, but it’s not his business, so he moves the sheets and drags the space heater into the bedroom. He plugs it in, flicks it on, and they both wait for it to start working.  
  
It sounds like it’s on it’s last stretch of life, honestly, but it starts to puff out, like, kind of warm air. It’s better than nothing. Jones scoots a little closer, so he was probably colder than he was letting on.  
  
Jesus. Even the apartment had better heat than this. Which kind of has him thinking.  
  
“Hey. None of my business, but why aren’t you staying with your foster family? They probably have better heat than this.”  
  
Instead of getting all bitchy and defensive like he usually would, Jones just shrugs, loose and boneless. “Didn’t want to.”  
  
Sweet Pea snorts, “And they just let you walk out? Ain’t that illegal?”  
  
“I told ‘em they could keep the income if they let me live in the trailer. Don’t think they really wanted me there, anyways. Honestly, I just wanted to, I dunno, be close to my dad even though he isn’t here anymore.”  
  
“You say that like he’s dead now,” he says, trying for a joke because this shit is getting too real too quick.  
  
Jones frowns. Pouts. Whatever. “He’s not dead, he’s just gone.”  
  
“‘M sure he’ll get out,” Sweet Pea offers, taking a long drag, because he can be nice if he wants to, and because with a little of loosening up, Jones doesn’t seem too sure about the FP-situation anymore. He’s not aware enough to put up all his bullshit.  
  
“Yeah, I know. It’s just—well, he did help cover up a kid’s murder,” Jones reminds him, all casual-like. Jones does that a lot, says things that aren’t casual in a casual way, like he can make them Not As Big A Deal by sheer force of will.  
  
“Yeah, but he didn’t _do_ the murder.”  
  
“I know that. But I thought he did,” Jones says, voice suddenly much quieter. Ashamed, almost. “He told me he killed Jason and I believed him. I was wrong, but I—I actually thought he killed a kid.”  
  
Sweet Pea is quiet. He doesn’t know how the fuck to respond to that. His brother’s never killed anymore before. He’s beat the absolute shit out of a bunch of people, but he’s never killed anyone, no matter how messy shit got.  
  
“That’s... fucked up.”  
  
“I know,” Jones says. “He was just doing so well, and he was really getting better, and then it was all for nothing, and it just—sucked. I thought it was getting better but it wasn’t.”  
  
“Yeah” Sweet Pea nods, “I feel that there. My brother—don’t think you ever met him yet, he’s super cool—my brother, he works this really shit job, down at the factory outside of town. It was supposed to be temporary, but he’s worked there for years now. He says that sometimes he thinks he’ll work there till he dies.”  
  
“That’s fucked up,” Jones says after a minute, because neither of them know how to comfort someone like a normal fucking person. It makes Sweet Pea huff a laugh.  
  
“Yeah. I know he’ll get a better job soon. He’s better than that shit.” Jones nods in agreement even though he’s never met Sweet Pea’s brother in his life, which is nice of him.  
  
Sweet Pea can feel his inhibitions—not that he has many to begin with—slipping away with each hit. They’re getting into deep shit already, so might as well fuck it and say what’s been on his mind for a while.  
  
“So what, your dad teach you how to throw back a shot?” He asks.  
  
Jones gets all tense, the way he does whenever someone mentions the Andrews kid or his dad’s trial, and then smooths out. “Yeah,” He says, sinking back against the side of the mattress, “So what?”  
  
“So. I didn’t expect it.”  
  
Jones stretches out his legs, tenses and then relaxes again, like he just did. It’s like a cycle he goes through. About FP. Because of FP. Whatever. It’s kind of fucked up. Sweet Pea wonders how many times he’s gone through it.  
  
“My mom and sister were out, and there was some movie he liked on TV. He poured out a shot for himself and he asked if I wanted one, too. I didn’t, really. But I wanted to do— _something_ with him. I wanted him to think I was, I don’t know, good enough for him to do things with.”  
  
Sweet Pea thinks about revving his bike and holding the cigarette between his fingers the way he’d seen his brother do a million times before.  
  
“How old were you?”  
  
Jones shrugs, “I dunno, ten? Eleven? My mom was pissed. My dad just thought it was funny.”  
  
His brother’s friends clapping him on the back when he coughed his lungs up and FP teaching his kid how to throw back tequila or vodka or whatever the fuck it was. He almost wants to ask.  
  
“After she left, like, for good, he spent my drive-in money on beer and drank until he passed out. Then he woke up and offered me a bottle. He didn’t get why I didn’t want one.”  
  
He rubs at his eyes. The space heater’s working a little better now.  
  
“It’s like—there was a moment when I realized I was, I dunno, more mature? More of a—more of an adult than he was.”  
  
Sweet Pea breathes out. Behind him, the space heater sputters for a moment, but then keeps on pushing through. Stubborn piece of garbage. “That’s fucked up,” he says, because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to say.  
  
Jughead huffs a laugh. It’s a pathetic kind of laugh, like it’s trying to hard to be a real one but just falls too fucking short. Like FP. Like Sweet Pea. Like everything.  
  
“Yeah,” He says. “It sucks.”  
  
“Were you mad at him?”  
  
“No. That was probably the worst part. I was just kind of... disappointed.”  
  
_Like always,_ Sweet Pea hears, even though he doesn’t say it.  
  
Fuck. This shit got depressing.  
  
“Fuck,” Sweet Pea says, “This shit got depressing.”  
  
Jones laughs for real this time, head tilting back against the bed. “My bad. Guess I get depressing when I’m high.”  
  
“You get depressing all the time.”  
  
Jones reaches out to try and swat him, but can’t reach. It’s funny, so Sweet Pea laughs. Jones smiles, all sleepy and so fucking high, and it’s nice, and it’s way better than that cycle of tense-soft-tense-soft he always has going.  
  
“I do not. I’m an optimist.”  
  
“Sure you are.”  
  
Jones rolls his eyes, falls back against the mattress, all spread out. Not tense at all. His ease makes Sweet Pea feel at ease. The room is finally warming up. The wall is barely chilly anymore.  
  
He smiles again, like he’s just barely remembered how to do it. “Tell me about your brother,” he finally asks.  
  
Sweet Pea grins back. “He’s older than me, obviously. Joined the Serpents when I was a kid, so he could help us out. He was the toughest guy on the streets back then.”  
  
“Like you, huh?”  
  
He’s making fun of him, but it doesn’t really feel like it. “Fuck off,” he says, half-hearted.  
  
“Nah, I mean it,” he pokes him in the leg with his foot, one of those super thick fuzzy socks on, “You punched me with brass knuckles, like, in the face. Tough shit.”  
  
“Not even gonna defend your dad, huh?”  
  
“He talks about the ‘ _good old days_ ’ enough for me to know they’ve been over for a while now.”  
  
“That’s harsh; stone cold.”  
  
Jones shrugs clumsily, “‘M just being honest.”  
  
“You really think I’m hot shit, huh?” He asks.  
  
Jones snorts, _“Tough_ shit, not hot shit, asshole.”  
  
“Same thing.”  
  
“Whatever,” he laughs, breathless.  
  
“You think I’m hot shit,” he says, just to tease him. His body feels heavy but he feels light, like he could do anything but also shouldn’t stand up if he doesn’t wanna get dizzy.  
  
_“You_ think you’re hot shit.”  
  
“You’re not denying it.”  
  
Jones shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, but there’s still the edge of a smile on his mouth.  
  
“Shit,” he breathes; it’s warm enough now that Sweet Pea can’t see his breath anymore, “‘M tired.”  
  
“Go to bed then, dumbass.”  
  
“It’s so far away.”  
  
“It’s literally right behind you.”  
  
“Oh yeah. Where’re you gonna sleep?”  
  
Sweet Pea considers this. There’s no way he’s driving right now, and there’s no way he’s walking. His brother has an early shift tomorrow so he doesn’t wanna ask him to pick him up. He doesn’t wanna sleep on Jones’ nasty ass couch.  
  
“I don’t wanna sleep on your nasty ass couch,” he says.  
  
_“I’m_ not sleeping on it.”  
  
“Well I’m not sleeping on the floor.”  
  
“Then where the hell are you gonna sleep?”  
  
Sweet Pea considers it again. “Just gimme half the bed.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your bed. It’s big enough. I’m damn well not walking home in the cold.”  
  
Jones seems to consider this, too, frowning vaguely while he tries his very best to think in his current state. “Sure,” He says, “I think it’s big enough.”  
  
Sweet Pea feels something warm settle in his chest. “Cool.”  
  
“Cool,” Jones says.  
  
They do climb into bed eventually, Sweet Pea kicking off his shoes and falling into the sheets even though he has to sleep with his fucking jeans on, which sucks. The bed’s big enough that there’s enough space between them, but small enough that he can feel the little bit of heat Jones gives off. It’s not cold enough to need it anymore, but it’s nice, maybe.  
  
He’ll probably feel like shit in the morning, but he’ll deal with that when he wakes up. The room smells like weed but they can probably put together five dollars for some febreze tomorrow. His brother still works his shit job and FP’s still in prison but it doesn’t matter. It’s all good. It’s whatever.  
  
Jones breathes deep and heavy a foot away. The space heater hasn’t sputtered out yet. Sweet Pea drifts off to sleep, and he feels warm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> comment to give me the motivation to start this Long Ass paper i gotta write :/


End file.
